The Ink Black Heart, page 90
‘But why attack Oliver at all?’
Strike drank more beer, then said,
‘I’m starting from the premise that, unlike his big brother, Oliver is a fucking idiot. Anagram of his real name in the game, rune-name on a Twitter account full of identifying photos, then he puts on his best designer gear to go to Comic Con, where I assume he was supposed to be discreet. Would you agree he’s a guy with a big mouth, a big ego and a dangerous sense of invulnerability?’
‘I would, yes,’ said Robin.
‘OK, then. I think there’s a strong chance that Oliver showed off his knowledge of Bitcoin, the dark web and criminally connected latex mask-makers on a private channel to impress Anomie. The Peach brothers must’ve done a lot of sucking-up to Anomie, to get made moderators.’
‘What – so you think Anomie learned some of The Halvening’s tricks directly from Oliver?’
‘I do, yeah – and if that’s what happened, he was dangerous to Anomie. Oliver could testify that Anomie had that knowledge, because he was the one who gave it to them.’
Again, Robin opened her mouth to speak, and again Strike correctly read her mind.
‘Look, I know it’s speculation, but there’s one thing we know for sure: once Anomie and members of The Halvening were in direct contact, there was a sudden change in the way people were attacked.
‘The Halvening m.o. was well established before they got inside that game: masks for surveillance work, bombs for the Direct Action list and online harassment for the indirect list – which was how Edie was supposed to die. She was meant to get bullied into a state where she’d take her own life. The Halvening aren’t a hands-on organisation. All their killing’s been done at a remove: sending bombs through the post, whipping up online mobs.
‘Then, out of the blue, we get two murders and two attempted murders which don’t follow the pattern: three stabbings and a push from a train platform, all committed by someone wearing a mask, which I assume, from the Met’s conviction that it’s all terrorism, they’ve identified as the handiwork of the dodgy Halvening-affiliated guy in Germany.
‘Then we get the banning of LordDrek right after Oliver hit the train tracks. Why did that happen so fast after the attempted killing? I think it was so Charlie couldn’t start mouthing off about Anomie’s attempted murder inside Drek’s Game.’
‘It fits,’ admitted Robin cautiously, ‘but—’
‘I keep going back to the question of why The Halvening would’ve stabbed Blay,’ said Strike. ‘Blay wasn’t on either of their lists and we know he wasn’t mere collateral damage: he didn’t get killed because he was defending Edie from the attacker, but because he was late and never reached her. What did the attacker’s “I’ll take care of things from here” mean, if it wasn’t about the cartoon?’
‘I don’t know,’ admitted Robin.
‘Why would The Halvening take Josh and Edie’s phones? They’d have done better to leave them exactly where they were. There was nothing that could’ve incriminated them. They were just burdening themselves with objects that tied them to the murder scene. Taking the dossier would make sense, because that’s easily burned – but why the mobiles?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Robin again. ‘But the taking of the dossier surely makes more sense if it was The Halvening who killed them.’
‘Not necessarily,’ said Strike. ‘Maybe Anomie didn’t know what was in there, and thought they were nicking a folder of pictures or new plot lines. Or,’ said Strike, ‘Anomie had got wind of the contents somehow, and didn’t want anyone to know the game had been infiltrated by terrorists.
‘And why would The Halvening want the hard drive of Bhardwaj’s computer? Again, they’re just saddling themselves with an incriminating bit of evidence. It would’ve been too late to repair the damage, if they thought he’d been sending out emails saying he thinks he’s identified them as terrorists. But if the killer was Anomie, the disappearance of the hard drive makes sense. They were trying to make sure nobody linked Morehouse to Bhardwaj. At a bare minimum, that hard drive would have shown that Bhardwaj was the one coding the game. Let’s not forget, the police haven’t got a shred of hard evidence Vikas had found out the Peach brothers’ true identities, but we know he knew Anomie’s.’
‘But—’
‘Let’s say, for the sake of argument, Vikas became convinced Anomie was behind the attacks on Edie, Josh and Oliver Peach. What if Anomie suspected Vikas was about to contact the authorities?’
‘But we’ve got no proof that happened either.’
‘Can you explain the ice-cold way Anomie told you that Morehouse had left last night? Anomie knows Vikas has been murdered, it’s been all over the news. Where’s the shock and grief? They were supposedly friends. D’you think the way Anomie spoke about Morehouse was natural, if they’d had nothing to do with his murder?’
‘No,’ said Robin. ‘I don’t.’
They both drank, thinking. Beside them, the two teenagers in the family group were both typing onto their phones, ignoring their parents. Finally, Robin said,
‘D’you think it’s worth doing some research on Lepine’s Disciple?’
‘I had a look at his account a while back. I doubt it’ll give us much. He’s just an anonymous little scrote who doesn’t like women.’
‘But in the interests of thoroughness—’
‘Yeah,’ said Strike with a sigh, ‘if you want to have a look, carry on. Personally, I think we’re far more likely to get what we need from Paperwhite than Lepine’s Disciple. There’s got to be a chance Morehouse told her who Anomie is. I’m going to tackle Yasmin tonight. Visit her at home, take her by surprise. If she’s still got a photo of Paperwhite it’ll give us a head start on finding her.’
A barman now brought them two veggie burgers.
‘Why haven’t you got chips?’ Strike asked, looking at Robin’s plate.
‘Solidarity,’ she said, smiling.
‘But I could’ve nicked some,’ sighed Strike, picking up his knife and fork.
91
Her hair stood back on either side
A face bereft of loveliness.
It had no envy now to hide
What once no man on earth could guess.
It formed the thorny aureole
Of hard unsanctified distress.
Mary Elizabeth Coleridge
The Other Side of a Mirror
Strike’s leg was giving him far more trouble than he wanted to admit to Robin. Another bout of spasms had woken him that morning, and hot pain shot through his hamstring every time he stepped on his prosthesis, reminding him that it would prefer to carry less weight and, ideally, none at all.
If he’d had a choice, he’d have stayed at the Z Hotel for another night and rested up, but as Murphy had said they were safe to go home, and mindful of the accountant’s jaundiced view of what constituted business expenses, Strike returned to the hotel with Robin only to pack his things and carry them back to his attic flat on Denmark Street.
The climb up the three flights of stairs added substantially to the pain in his stump. An afternoon nap prior to visiting Yasmin Weatherhead in Croydon was rendered impossible by the loud noises of the builders in the office below. Strike therefore sat at his small kitchen table, leg elevated on a second chair, and ordered a new desk, filing cabinet, PC, computer chair and sofa online, to be delivered in a few days’ time.
The news of The Halvening arrests had hit the news a couple of hours after he’d arrived home. Strike whiled away the rest of the afternoon vaping and drinking coffee while refreshing various news sites. Unsurprisingly, most news reports led with the news that the two sons of Ian Peach, tech multimillionaire and once aspiring Mayor of London, had been led in handcuffs out of his Bishop’s Avenue house, which had Grecian columns and a brand-new Maserati parked in the drive. Pictures of Uruz, with his 88 tattoo and slick blond hair; skinheaded Thurisaz, his rune prominent on his Adam’s apple; Ben-the-bombmaker, whose unsmiling photograph revealed a wall-eyed glare; and Wally Cardew, described in the caption of his picture as a ‘well-known YouTuber’, were among those relegated to the foot of the story. Nineteen young men were now in custody, most of them from London, although arrests had also been made in Manchester, Newcastle and Dundee. Strike well understood the satisfaction Ryan Murphy and Angela Darwish must be experiencing; he’d known it himself, at the conclusion of cases, and he envied them the sense of resolution.
At five o’clock, Strike set out for Croydon, and a little over an hour later was to be seen limping along Lower Addiscombe Road, the sleepy residential street where Robin had sat in the Saucy Sausage café, watching the front of the Weatherheads’ house.
Strike decided to observe the Weatherhead home for a while before knocking on the door. While his stump didn’t much appreciate being asked to support him while loitering outside the row of closed shops opposite for forty minutes, he felt justified in his decision when he at last spotted blonde Yasmin walking up the street, typing on her phone as she went, a large messenger bag slung over her shoulder and wearing the same long black cardigan she’d sported in the photographs Robin had sent him weeks before. Barely raising her eyes from her phone, she turned automatically towards the front door of the family house and disappeared inside.
Strike waited five minutes, then crossed the road and rang the doorbell. After a short wait, the door opened and Yasmin stood there, still holding her mobile and looking mildly surprised to see a stranger on the doormat.
‘Evening,’ said Strike. ‘Yasmin Weatherhead?’
‘Yes,’ she said, looking puzzled.
‘My name’s Cormoran Strike. I’m a private detective. I was hoping to ask you a couple of questions.’
The look of mild confusion on Yasmin’s round, flat face turned instantly to fear.
‘Shouldn’t take long,’ said Strike. ‘Just a couple of questions. Phillip Ormond knows me and can vouch for me.’
An older woman now appeared in the hallway behind Yasmin. She had thick dark grey hair and the same flat face as her daughter.
‘Who’s this?’
‘He’s just – just someone who wants to ask me some questions,’ said Yasmin.
‘What about?’ said Mrs Weatherhead, blinking up at Strike with sheep-like eyes.
‘About my book,’ Yasmin lied. ‘I – all right, come in,’ she added, to Strike. ‘It won’t take long,’ she assured her mother.
Strike suspected that, like Inigo Upcott, Yasmin’s need to know why he wanted to talk to her outweighed her very obvious fear. She led him into a front room overlooking the street and closed the door firmly on her mother.
The space had an air of having been recently redecorated: the pristine light blue carpet was giving off a rubbery smell of newness and the cream leather sofa and chairs looked as though they’d barely been sat on. The large flatscreen television dominated the room. A cluster of photographs displayed on a side table mostly featured the same two little dark-haired girls, who Strike guessed, given the lack of resemblance to Yasmin, were her nieces.
‘You can sit down,’ said Yasmin, so Strike took the sofa while she placed herself in an armchair and set her mobile down on the arm.
‘When did you talk to Phillip?’ she asked.
‘A few weeks ago,’ said Strike. ‘My agency’s been hired to find out who Anomie is. I’d have thought he’d have told you that.’
Yasmin blinked rapidly a few times, then said,
‘It was your partner, who talked to me at Comic Con, wasn’t it?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Well, I’ve already told the police everything I know, which is nothing?’ she added, and he noticed the uptalking Robin had mentioned.
‘That’s not what you told my partner. You told her you’d put clues together to find out Anomie’s identity.’
Yasmin’s right hand was playing with the perfectly manicured nails of her left. Since getting home, she’d changed her shoes for a pair of Ugg boots, which had made large, flat imprints on the new carpet.
‘You’re Hartella in Drek’s Game, of course,’ said Strike.
The colour now drained out of Yasmin’s lips. If it occurred to her to return an incredulous ‘I’m what?’, she was plainly incapable of delivering the words with any conviction, so merely stared at him, mute.
‘I don’t know whether you’ve seen the news this afternoon,’ said Strike. ‘Nineteen members of a far-right terrorist group—’
Yasmin burst into tears. The heavy fall of dark blonde hair concealed her face as she sobbed into her hands, while her thick legs, planted in their Uggs on the carpet, trembled. Strike, whose instinct was that he’d get more out of Yasmin by being businesslike rather than sympathetic, waited in silence for her to regain control.
After nearly a minute, Yasmin raised her head again. Her face was as blotchy as her neck now, and she’d wept away her mascara, which made pale grey smears beneath her swollen eyes.
‘I don’t know anything,’ she said in a pleading voice. ‘I don’t!’
Having no tissue on her, Yasmin wiped both eyes and nose on the arm of her black cardigan.
‘We both know that’s not true,’ said Strike, unsmiling. ‘Where did you get that dossier of supposed proof that Edie Ledwell was Anomie?’
‘I put it together myself?’ she said, in barely more than a whisper.
‘You didn’t,’ said Strike calmly. ‘Someone else put that dossier together, and passed it to you inside Drek’s Game.’
Given the puffiness of Yasmin’s eyes, Strike guessed this wasn’t the first time she’d cried today. Perhaps seeing the news of The Halvening arrests had sent her scurrying into the bathroom at work, where she’d wept in terror of what was to come, before carefully reapplying her make-up.
‘We know two members of The Halvening infiltrated the moderator channel,’ he said. ‘The police will soon find the devices used by LordDrek and Vilepechora –’
She gasped at the names, as though he’d thrown freezing water at her.
‘– to play Drek’s Game. MI5 are on the case, too. It’s not going to be long before they track you down and –’
Yasmin began to cry again, one hand over her mouth as she rocked backwards and forwards in the chair.
‘ – ask why you didn’t tell them—’
‘I didn’t know!’ she said, through her fingers, ‘I didn’t! I didn’t!’
‘—where that dossier came from.’
There was a soft knock on the sitting-room door, and it began to open.
‘Would you like a cup—?’ Mrs Weatherhead began.
‘No!’ said Yasmin in a strangled voice.
Mrs Weatherhead edged further in through the door, looking concerned. Like her daughter, she was wearing Uggs.
‘What’s going—?’
‘I’ll tell you afterwards, Mum!’ whispered Yasmin. ‘Just go away!’
Yasmin’s mother withdrew, looking worried. Once the door had closed, Yasmin put her face back in her hands and began to sob again. Muffled words escaped her, which to Strike were indistinguishable until he caught ‘so… humiliating…’
‘What’s humiliating?’
Yasmin looked up, her nose and eyes still streaming.
‘I thought… I thought LordDrek w-was… an actor? He told me he was, he was really convincing… s-so I went to his p-play… and told the woman on the stage door Hartella w-was there… he’d p-promised me an autograph… backstage?… And… he looked straight p-past me and I was saying “It’s me! It’s me!” and…’
A storm of sobs ensued.
‘If you keep pretending they were never in the game, you’ll look like you’re one of them,’ said Strike remorselessly. ‘People will think you helped them willingly.’
‘They can’t,’ said Yasmin, looking up with a kind of desperate defiance. ‘I mean, like, everyone who knows me knows I’m super left-wing? And all my social media proves it?’
‘People tell lies about themselves online all the time. A prosecutor would argue you were pretending to be a left-winger to cover up your real beliefs.’
She stared at him for a second or two, eyes swimming with tears, and then, not altogether to the detective’s surprise, she lashed out.
‘I thought you were s’posed to be finding out who Anomie is? It’s the police’s job to find out about The Halvening, not yours! Or are you just trying to make yourself more famous or something?’
‘If you’d rather talk about Anomie, let’s do that,’ said Strike. ‘Ever wondered whether they’re the one who killed Ledwell?’
‘Of course not!’ said Yasmin, with a hint of a gasp.
‘Even though they’ve been boasting they killed her, inside the game?’
‘That’s just – I mean, he’s joking?’ said Yasmin, trying for incredulity.
‘And it’s never occurred to you that it’s not a joke? That Anomie actually did it?’
‘Of course not!’ she repeated.
‘How’s your book going? Anomie still getting part of the proceeds?’
‘It’s not – it’s on hold? Because—’
‘Because one of your co-authors was arrested for murder, and the other might have actually done it?’
‘Because – because now doesn’t feel like the right time,’ she said breathlessly.
‘You realise all the detailed information Ormond gave you about Edie’s new characters, and the plot of the film, came off the phone he picked up and hid after she’d been murdered?’
Strike knew that, somewhere behind the aghast expression and swollen eyes, Yasmin’s dreams of press interviews and flattering photographs, of enhanced prestige in the fandom and status as a published author were crumbling to dust.
